


Answered Prayers

by lonelywalker



Category: Brimstone
Genre: Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezekiel chases a demon into a gay bar and while he's looking around for the guy he bumps into his boss, who steals a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answered Prayers

Technically, Ezekiel Stone has absolutely no need to breathe. He's dead, and has been for more than fifteen years, reanimated by a diabolical combination of demonic power and the grace of God. His lungs require no air, his heart no blood. But, just as he doesn't need to eat, but happily wolfs down cheeseburgers and fries and chocolate milkshakes _anyway_ , Zeke rather likes being able to inhale. Just for the hell of it.

At this particular moment, crammed into a crowd of moving, dancing, _crushing_ people, however, he's glad that he's the last person here who's likely to faint from lack of oxygen.

They'd let him in at the door, despite the fire hazard, due to… Well, he'd like to think it was to do with the pointed glare he'd developed over years as a police officer, the one that said, "I'm a cop, let me through" even if he didn't have a badge for identification, but now that he's actually inside…

"Buy you a drink?" a young man with a bright smile and tight black vest is asking, as Zeke tears himself out of the dancefloor and makes it to higher ground.

He somehow manages to wave the guy away without making it look personal, scouring the club for the person he's really after – one of Hell's lost souls, the kind of man who might blend in anonymously with a crowd like this, if no one knew that he'd been born (and died) thousands of years ago, when togas rather than jeans had been the height of fashion.

It's useless, though. The swarm of people is dense and endless, and the lights get in his eyes whenever he thinks he has a glimpse of someone who _might_ be the guy. He'll have to resume his chase the next morning and, for now, at least he's near a bar. A bar that, despite the popularity of martinis and cosmos, still serves good old boring draft beer.

"Thanks," he says to the barman, and sits down on a stool there, a little hunched over, hopefully sending the message that no one should bother him. In the eighties, when he'd been a real cop, he'd dealt with the gay community in NYC a few times, and had never had any trouble – but there's a difference between taking witness statements and actually sitting around in a bar as if he's looking for company.

A difference only underlined by the hand that suddenly slips onto his thigh and _squeezes_ before Zeke can grab it by the wrist, can turn around, ready to throw the remnants of his drink in the face of whoever would dare…

"Now, now, Ezekiel, _that_ sort of thing would be better appreciated at the bar three doors down."

Usually, Zeke tries to effect a sort of pained nonchalance whenever his boss appears out of thin air, but this time around it's a little more awkward than usual. Still, he pushes the errant hand away, and gulps down another mouthful of beer. It's unknown whether he can actually get drunk these days, but the way this night is going, he might just find out.

"Checking up on me again?" he mutters into his glass.

The Devil, for his part, seems to be enjoying the place immensely. He certainly fits in better, having dressed to impress in tight jeans and a tighter t-shirt that's showing off impressively bulging biceps. Still, it's not as if the Devil ever has to bust his ass sweating in the gym. "Not at all, Ezekiel, I was just getting acquainted with some of my future guests. Strange as it may seem, not everything is about _you_."

"Your future guests?" Zeke can see where this is going, and doesn't like it at all. "I guess Hell could do with some interior decorators."

He gets a chuckle for his troubles. "How stereotypical of you. You're almost as bad as those bigots _up there_. Hell is a very equal opportunity institution. All colors, all creeds, and _especially_ all sexual preferences."

"You're a real saint," Zeke says dryly, and finishes his beer, placing what he owes next to the empty glass, and getting up from his stool.

The Devil, irritatingly imposing for such a slight, wiry man, is instantly blocking his path. "Leaving so soon?"

Zeke sighs. "I lost the guy. I'll find him again tomorrow. There's no point spending the whole night wandering around alleys trying to catch a glimpse of him…" But the Devil, oddly enough, is shaking his head.

"Forget him," he says, "at least for tonight. But I do think you need to attend my compulsory diversity seminar, Ezekiel. Now."

Zeke has barely stumbled over the words "diversity" and "seminar" by the time the Devil has a fistful of his trenchcoat, and Zeke has a mouthful of someone else's lips and tongue.

To be fair, the Devil doesn't taste _bad_ \- the overwhelming sense of sulfur Zeke might have expected is in fact a mixture of coffee, cologne, and some very intense brand of toothpaste. To be even fairer, the Devil isn't a _man_ at all, he's a genderless fallen angel, a supernatural being that exists outside time and space.

None of these considerations, however well-thought-out and rational they may be, give Zeke any sort of comfort at all, though, in the moments when the Devil is kissing him, fingers digging into his hips like vices.

They give him even less comfort when, after a moment or two, when his shock and anger subsides, he finds himself kissing the Devil with more need than fury.

Only the supernatural can make him feel pain, he knows. Only the supernatural can kill him. But the flipside of that, that only demons and angels and Satan himself can give him pleasure, is something he's never thought to dwell on before now. And now… he just can't resist.

In the morning, when he's being run ragged around the city once more, bruised and broken and thrown against walls and coughing on his own blood, then he'll blame it on something in the beer, on mind control, on anything but what it truly was.

But now, the Devil looks at him with kind eyes and sharp teeth, and offers him a perfectly manicured hand. "Would you like to dance, Ezekiel?"

Zeke's mouth says "no" more firmly than he's ever said anything in his life. But his hand reaches for the Devil's, and stays there all night long.


End file.
